“Thank you, sir,” Randall said. “We’ll need all the luck we can get, I guess. And good hunting for the Sea King when she slides out of Pearl Harbor again.”
Commander Tracey started to speak, but checked himself as a figure came up the conning ladder from the forward deck.
“Yes, Keyes?” he grunted.
“We’ve exchanged signals, sir,” Keyes said. “It’s all right for the two officers to go ashore. The dinghy is ready.”
“Signals?” Randall echoed impulsively. “What signals, sir? I didn’t see a thing.”
“Of course not,” Commander Tracey said quietly. “We use a black light signal that was developed in the last war. You can’t see it unless you have a special filter lens in your binoculars. It’s no secret now, though. Every nation at war uses the black light signal. Well, I guess this is where you get off, Lieutenants. Lieutenant Keyes will see you aboard the dinghy. See that trio of stars dead ahead? Keep your bow pointed straight for them. Don’t show any lights, and don’t talk. When you hit shore simply wait. Your friends will find you and take over. Good luck again, and sorry the boat ride couldn’t have been more comfortable. But that’s a submarine for you. You love them, or you hate them. It’s like that.”
Randall and Jimmy Joyce refrained from telling the Commander what they thought about submarines. Instead they shook his hand, both wished him luck, and then followed Lieutenant Keyes down the conning bridge ladder to the deck, and went over the side into the dinghy. The Lieutenant gave them a shove-off, and then they were swallowed up in the darkness, rowing gently and silently with the dinghy’s bow headed toward the trio of stars dead ahead.
Five minutes dragged by, and Randall, who was working the oars, was filled with a crazy urge to start yelling at the top of his voice. The silence was like a heavy wet blanket that pressed in on him from all sides. And the darkness was like an evil-smelling dank fog that blurred his eyes, filled his nostrils, clogged up his throat, and made his ears ring. Forward, astern, to port and to starboard, there was nothing but ringing silence and stifling darkness. He could not see Jimmy Joyce sitting not two feet from him, nor could he see the water of the Yellow Sea into which he dipped his short oars time and time again. He felt that he was in the very middle of a vast and ghostly world, as though he were dead, and this was the mysterious moment between death and the hereafter.
Without warning, the bow of the dinghy grounded on soft sand. Forward movement ceased abruptly, and the sudden stop almost sent Randall plunging headfirst up against Jimmy Joyce. Only by a tremendous effort was he able to maintain his balance and check the upraised oars from banging against the dinghy’s gunwales.
When he had collected his wits he took one of the oars, leaned over the dinghy’s side, and pushed the oar down into the water. He discovered that the depth was only a foot and a half, and he was tempted to suggest to Jimmy that they get out of the dinghy and wade ashore to wait there. On second thought he decided to follow Commander Tracey’s suggestion to the letter—to sit perfectly still and silent, and let General Ling Chan’s men find them. That did seem like the best idea when he realized that perhaps he had not rowed a true and straight course to shore. The three stars by which he had set his course were now hidden behind what was undoubtedly a rising slope of shore line.
Silently shipping the oars, Randall sat motionless, arms crossed against his chest, and both ears straining for the slightest sound that might come out of the surrounding darkness. Every now and then he glanced at the radium dial of his wrist watch, and when fifteen year-long minutes had ticked by, frantic impatience and not a little worry crowded into his thoughts. Had Lieutenant Keyes made a mistake, and no identification signals had been exchanged between the Sea King and General Ling Chan’s guerrillas ashore? But how could that possibly have happened? More likely he had rowed a corkscrew course and had touched shore a considerable distance from where the guerrillas expected to meet Jimmy Joyce and himself. Perhaps the Chinese could not find the dinghy in the darkness, and had decided to wait until dawn to continue their search.
A few minutes later Red Randall felt steel-like fingers close about his arm. Impulsively he opened his mouth to let out a yell, but a vile-smelling hand was instantly closed over it. He relaxed and turned his head, as the hand was removed from his mouth, and tried to make out the figure that stood in the water by the dinghy’s side. It was impossible, though, to make out anything but a shadow that was a bit blacker than the night. Two shadows, in fact, because there was another figure standing in the water beside Jimmy Joyce.
Then a soft purring voice spoke in an almost inaudible whisper.
“Come, please. No sound, please.”
Just five words, but to Randall they were almost the most welcome words he had ever heard. They told him that the second leg of the mad journey was ended. Jimmy Joyce and he were in the hands of gallant Chinese guerrillas. Soon he would be handing to General Ling Chan the second and last sealed envelope he carried against his skin. Perhaps in the matter of a few hours, Jimmy and he would be in the air and flying the last leg to a meeting with Agent Six at Takahara.
Fears, worries, and doubts faded from Randall’s mind, and joy and relief took their place as he climbed out of the dinghy and walked ashore with the silent shadow at his side. As soon as he was on dry sand, the steely fingers gently turned him to the right and guided him forward. He peered back over his shoulder and was just able to make out the two dark moving blurs that were Jimmy Joyce and the other Chinese guerrilla following along after him.
A hundred different questions crowded up to Randall’s lips, but he managed to keep silent. Complete silence seemed to be the one and only thing of importance now. Besides, he doubted that his guide knew enough English words to answer any of his questions. Another startling thought came to him. Colonel Denton had not said whether or not General Ling Chan spoke English. He hoped that the sealed envelope he carried explained that Jimmy and he would want a Japanese plane.
“But why worry about that now, dope?” he asked himself. “You’re safe and sound on China’s soil. And soon you’ll be in the hands of a man who is bound to know all the answers. So just wait until you meet him before you start sweating over details.”
When presently his guide led him directly inland from the shore line it was all he could do to remain on his feet, without bothering to try to do any thinking between stumbles and near-falls.
Back in Australia Colonel Denton had said that the area around Kiaochow was some of the wildest country in the world, and with every stumbling step Randall realized that the Colonel had not half expressed himself on the subject. Perhaps in the light of day it would not be so hard to make progress, but in the dark it was just plain torture. Nothing was firm or smooth under his feet. With every step forward he seemed to skid and slide back two. Sharp stones seemed to form a wall on either side of him to dig their points into his arms, his ribs, his thighs, and his legs. He knew that his uniform was torn in a dozen places, and his hands were scratched and bleeding from tough, thorny bushes that reached out of the darkness to bar every foot of the way. The air he breathed was like sucking rancid honey into his lungs. And all the while he and his guerrilla guide were climbing uphill, higher and higher toward the stars.
A hundred times he was on the verge of pleading with his guide to call a halt and give him time to rest. Young, and tough, and well army trained as he was, this journey up through night-darkened Chinese wilderness was sapping his strength beyond endurance. He was about to demand that he be given a chance to rest when suddenly he was walking on smooth hard ground, no thorn bushes were tearing at him, and cool, clean mountain air was blowing into his face. Most important of all, just a short way ahead of him he could see a narrow crack of yellow light—a crack of light that showed through a door not quite closed.
“Boy, oh, boy! Do I hope this is the end of this!” he heard his own voice mumble.
It apparently was, for the steely fingers about his arm tightened, and his guid
e stepped up the pace. When they reached the crack of yellow light, Randall saw to his amazement that it was not the door of a house, or even a shack. It was a wooden door built into the side of a hill that went up straight for a great distance. On impulse he threw back his head and looked straight up the flat side of the hill to the millions of stars above. And then an instant later the most violent surprise of his life was his.
The guide, who had been most gentle and helpful during the torturous journey to this spot, suddenly grabbed him with both hands, hooked open the door with the toe of one boot, and practically threw him headfirst inside. The sudden change of inky darkness to yellow light blinded Randall, and it was all he could do to keep on his feet. In fact, he would have gone sprawling flat on his face if his outflung hands had not caught hold of a post which supported the roof of the cave.
“Hey! What’s the big idea?” he gasped and tried to rub the blur out of his eyes with one hand. “That’s no way to treat a...!”
Red Randall never finished that sentence. As his eyes became adjusted to the light, he found himself staring into the evil-grinning face of an officer of the Imperial Japanese Army. In complete dumbfounded stupefaction he gaped at the officer, and then as a strangled cry rose up in his throat, he whirled around to look behind him. The first thing he saw was Jimmy Joyce standing just inside the door, and looking like a man who has just been shot between the eyes but has yet to fall down dead. What he saw next were the two Chinese guerrillas who had met the Sea King’s dinghy and served as the guides to this spot. Only now he saw them in the light, and they were not Chinese. They were Japanese, garbed in the rough clothing of Chinese guerrillas. The leers they gave him were like steel blades plunging through his heart.
“Japs!” he shouted wildly, as the walls of the cave seemed to press in on him.
Perhaps he flung up one arm in a gesture of anger, or perhaps his captors were just waiting for an outburst, but whatever the reason, a tremendous blow was driven straight to the back of Red Randall’s head. He tried to hang onto the post and hold himself up, but the post melted to thin air in his hands. He saw the Japanese officer open his mouth wide in humorless laughter, but he heard not a sound. He fell down a great big hole, and the hole closed in after him to bury him in silence and in darkness!
Chapter Ten – General Chan Pays A Call
A FEELING THAT his head had been split straight down the middle by an axe pulled Red Randall back to consciousness. When he slowly opened his eyes he could see nothing but a world of shimmering yellow light. It was like waking up from a horrible dream and finding yourself pinned helpless and staring straight into the rays of the high noon sun. He groaned, closed his eyes, and tried to fight the pain that shot through his head like white fire.
And then a different kind of pain snapped his eyes open again. It was the stinging pain of the palm of a hand slapping him across the cheek. From out of the world of shimmering yellow light came the hissing words:
“Stay awake, you American dog! You do not fool me. You would like to act like a baby, which you are, but I will not allow it. Stay awake! Look at me, cursed one!”
The last was accompanied by a second blow across Randall’s cheek. Though it stung, it served to dull the pain in his head and to rekindle the flames of anger in his breast. He forced himself to keep his eyes open, and gradually the shimmering yellow light seemed to die away, and he saw that he was still in the carved-out cave in the hillside. Only now he was seated in a woven vine chair, and it was the Japanese officer who stood by the post that extended from the dirt floor of the cave up to the split-timbered ceiling bracing.
The officer leered at him, but Randall took his eyes off the hated face and looked about the room. His heart gave a violent start when he saw that Jimmy Joyce was no longer there. Neither were the two devils who had passed themselves off as General Ling Chan’s guerrillas. Reluctantly Randall pulled his eyes back to the Japanese officer’s face.
“Where is my friend?” he asked. “What happened to him?”
“Do not worry,” the officer said, and broadened his smile. “Your little friend is safe...for the present. But whether you or he lives depends on several things. Now, you and I will talk. You want some water first, yes?”
The Nipponese moved his hand toward an earthen jug that stood on a near-by table, but Randall shook his head.
“Keep it,” he said, tight-lipped. “I don’t want a thing from you.”
“There is much you may want from me before all is finished,” the officer hissed through his teeth. “Do not forget, you are my prisoner. You are helpless. Your airplane has crashed, and you are prisoners of the Japanese Army.”
“My plane cra...” Randall began but stopped himself.
“Oh, yes, I know all about it,” the Japanese said with another of his silent laughs. “We will catch all of you who were so foolish as to try to strike at Japan with your bombs. Several we have already captured. I warn you, it will be best to tell me where the other members of your crew are hiding. If you do not, they will be shot the minute they are captured. You can save their lives by telling me where they are.”
“You’re...you’re crazy!” Randall gasped. “What do you mean where is the rest of my crew hiding?”
The officer’s eyes narrowed slightly and his tongue flicked snake-like over his teeth.
“So, you would much rather pretend that you are stupid, yes?” he purred and tapped a finger to his temple. “That perhaps when your plane crashed into the water you received a blow that has made you forget. No, my foolish one. You cannot make me think that. I will tell you about it, just as it happened. Your plane was one of those that dropped bombs on Tokyo and Yokohama and Kobe and Osaka this morning. Our fighters destroyed several planes, but a few of you managed to escape toward the China coast. We here were warned, and we have been waiting to capture all of you. Your plane, like others, did not reach the shore. You crashed in the water close to shore. You came ashore in your little boat. Ah, yes, dog Chinese were waiting to rescue you. But my men caught them hiding on the shore with their signal light. They are dead, and you and your friend are my prisoners. My men still search for the rest of your crew. So you had better tell me where they came ashore, or they will be shot at once when we find them. And we will find them!”
Randall’s head was spinning like a top. Was this Japanese officer stark raving mad, or was it true? Had Yank airmen bombed Japan this morning? But how, and from what bases? Was the officer trying to tell him that none of the boys got back? Had they all crashed on the China coast and fallen into Japanese hands? His heart swelled with pride that Yank daredevils actually had struck home at the very heart of Japan.
He stared hard at the Japanese.
“You’re telling me the truth?” he demanded. “American planes did bomb Japan today? Now, never mind smirking, because I want to know. And if you want to know something I didn’t take part in that raid, though I sure wish I had. And neither did my friend!”
The officer looked startled, and then came his expression of silent laughter.
“Fool of a dog’s mother, do you expect me to believe you?” he hissed. “Did my men not find Chinese guerrillas waiting on the shore for you to come from your crashed plane? Have we not had our patrols out ever since the alarm was flashed from Tokyo? Do you not wear the wings of an American pilot? And your friend, also?”
“Sure we do!” Randall shouted as a sudden thought came to him. “But figure this out! You say we crashed in the water? Well, did you find the plane?”
“No, and that is not important,” the officer hissed. “It probably sank at once. We can locate it, if we wish, when it becomes light.”
“Well, you’ll have some hunting to do!” Randall cried, and tapped his torn uniform. “Look at this, my uniform! Was it water soaked when that soldier of yours brought me in? Was the uniform of my friend? No! Just wet around the feet and ankles. Ask your soldiers if our uniforms were soaked. And you can’t crash land and get into a boat withou
t getting wet. Another thing! The boat we came ashore in. Go take a good look at it. You don’t carry that kind of a boat in a bomber. Go ahead, and take a look at it. Send your soldiers to look at it. They’ll tell you!”
Puzzlement and alarm had lighted up the Japanese officer’s eyes. He stared at Randall long and hard, and a tiny spark of hope began to flicker in the Yank pilot’s chest. As long as the Japanese officer believed that Jimmy and he had helped bomb Japan they were doomed. But if he could convince the Nipponese that they had taken no part in that raid, then there was a tiny ray of hope. For one thing it would puzzle the officer, and as long as he was puzzled, Jimmy and he would continue to live. Also, the reason Jimmy and he were there might perplex the man so much that he would spend less effort in hunting out the Tokyo bombers, some of which apparently had force landed in this area. All the extra time they were given were just so many extra steps to ultimate safety. It was a double gamble, and he must play it for all he was worth. Sparring for time was the important thing now. Yesterday he would gladly have given away hours of it. But now he wanted to cling to every single second possible.
“Well, you think I lie?” he shouted at the bewildered officer. “What about this uniform that isn’t water soaked? And go look at the boat we used. Go ahead! I dare you to!”
“Then where did you come from?” the officer asked slowly.
Red Randall leaped at the opening.
“Wouldn’t you like to know!” he cried. “And wouldn’t you like to know why, too? Well, I’m not going to tell you...yet. So think that over!”
The Japanese officer showed his teeth in a broad smile, but there was no mirth in his eyes. They were agate hard and glittering, like the eyes of a deadly cobra about to strike.
“So, you will tell me no more, please, yes?” the Japanese spoke in a voice that was like escaping steam. “You wish, please, that we show you ways to make stubborn American dogs talk?”
Red Randall Over Tokyo Page 7
